


Boys With War Paint

by Tolpen



Series: The Skirt of Time [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad joke about disarming, Book: Night Watch, Everyone is tired, Gen, Revolution, Young Assassins are shit, Zombies drink formaldehyde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-29 22:38:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16752772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: The one where Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel doesn't die and Commander Samuel Vimes doesn't make it home. Also the one where two young Assassins with paint on their faces meet before the revolution's aftermath.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oneinspats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/gifts).



> oneinspants and I had a talk about Downey vs. languages. Downey has a perfect hearing and doesn't only known many obscure languages (although better spoken than written), he is good with accents and manner of talking too. Think Professor Higgins from Pygmalion/My Fair Lady.

The man's expression changed as Vimes approached. Vimes was speeding up, shouldercharging and thrusting other bodies away. Carcer raised his sword and took a stance, but there was no room for finesse in the melee and Vimes closed like a bull, knocking the sword up and grabbing Carcer by the collar.

'You're nicked, my ol' chum,' he said. And then there was a flash of light. And then a thunder struck

And somewhere in the background among the many other negligible details the Sweeper said: 'Oh, shit.'

And _then_ it began pouring from the clear sky.

The momentum sent Vimes tumbling forwards into the empty space where Carcer had been just a blink of an eye before. He had nearly fallen on his own sword. There was a heel moving fast towards his head, he could see it out of the corner of his eye, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to dodge it so he steeled himself and made goodbyes to a couple of teeth.

Somebody's long fingers grabbed the heel and twisted it. Vimes heard a sharp cry of pain above himself. He took the moment to take back his footing.

Fighting became quite difficult on the wet cobblestone and the heavy curtain of rain was nearly impossible to see thorough. That was as much disadvantage for his men as it was an advantage, because it meant the other bastards didn't see a shit either. It wasn't going to last long, however, there was only so much water that could fall on you from an empty sky.

Between the puddles of blood and mud and rainwater, the men continued on fighting. Vimes was trying to find Carcer again, but he was nowhere to be seen. He noticed his younger self being outnumbered by four another men, but before he had the chance to get there, a black clad figure fell into the conflict with the last raindrops, holding strongly soaked Morprkian flag. Vimes could hear Reg confusedly cussing.

Not that he had much time to focus on such things, he had his own trouble coming at him. He disarmed one man charging at him and proceeded to use that arm as an improvised bludgeon when his sword got stuck in another never-do-well's skull.

He was nearly certain he was seeing double, because there couldn't possibly be two black figures, could they? Both fighting... on their side? It seemed so. One of them had certainly a purple flower in the area where faces usually have mouth, except the figure seemed to lack a face.

The two figures were very easy to trace, because there was a lot of space opening around them. Carcer's men soon learned that it was good to keep their distance, especially from the one using the flag as a stick and thus having a very long reach. The two of them danced, there wasn't a better word for it, across the bodies drawn to each other like magnets and when they reached the other one, they fought with their backs turned to each other.

Vimes ducked from a sword swung at him and shattered the man's kneecap. He overheard a conversation behind him happening with a lack of breath and a lot of angry cursing. Something about dogs, and Ludo being worried, and a shade of green, something something, bad hair day something something, hangover. Who the hell was even Ludo?

And then the fight was over because the enemy was either on the ground unmoving or had already scattered to the streets. Any attempt of pursue was out of question.

A sharp pain at the back of his shin made Vimes realize he been badly bruised and gotten some scratches too, although those weren't anything serious. Young Vimes was helping Coats to his feet, Coats checking his bleeding forehead. Reg Shoe was on the ground and if it wasn't for his hysterical laughter, everyone would believe him he was truly dead. There were eight men standing: Young Sam Vimes, the two boys in black, Fred Colon, Snouty, Ned Coats, Herbert Gaskin, and he. Nobby didn't count because he was sitting and wailing so profoundly that hiccup claimed him and made him move two inches to the back with every hic.

The taller of the boys, who seemed oddly familiar, in black, the one who wasn't holding the flag, spat out the lilac bloom, smeared the green-grey paint further from forehead into his hair and asked: 'Does it count as a win for us?'

'I do you one better: What now? Here, Mr. Quiver, have your flag back.'

Reg took the flag back with a word of thanks and then dropped back to being hysterically dead.

Vimes looked at the men putting themselves together and drawing themselves closer to him. 'Well, we can always storm the Palace and commit a major treason,' he grumbled. A few of the watchem actually laughed at, only Snouty was spitting out blood. 'Thank you, boys, ummm... Who are you exactly?'

'They look, hnah, like they're from the, hnah, uh.... Guild. You know the one. Hnah, the black Guild.'

The other Assassin, both most likely undergraduates as Vimes realized, tilted his head to side. For some reason his face was painted orange with black smears. 'And who are _you,_ and who put you in charge here?'

His companion sighed and tapped his nose with a temple he had built from his fingers. In that moment it dawned upon Vimes why he seemed like he knew him. It was because he actually knew him! Add a beard and a couple of decades to his age, put him in the Oblong Office, and Vimes will salute to him. Now this much younger version of Vetinari said: 'That's Sergeant, sorry, Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel. He happens to be in charge here because he is actually the highest ranking officer here.'

'I'm pretty sure I know every copper scag officer around this town, and this guy ain't one.'

Vimes frowned. 'I'm new. Came from Pseudopolis a couple of day ago.'

The Assassin who wasn't Vetinari looked him up and down. 'Bullshit,' he concluded.

In the back, Ned tried not to laugh, and young Sam offered him a few cough drops he had here in the pocket, hold on, he was going to find them, all the while Vimes' frown deepened. 'Excuse you?'

'I said 'bullshit'. Have your ears checked, Sarge. Like hell you've been anywhere near Pseudopolis. Maybe I'm no genius head like Dog-Botherer here, or so everyone tries to claim, but I'm not deaf, you know. If you are from Pseudopolis, or actually named Keel for that matter, I'll swallow a bottle of mercury and chug it down with formaldehyde.'

'Downey, stop being so dramatic, now is not the time, please.'

'Well I'm just saying that I have trust issues with a guy whose first words to me are a lie, especially if he doesn't even try to cover up the fact he's laying. Especially if that scag is supposed to boss me around.' Downey folded arms on his chest and leaned on the nearest wall.

'Well, and, um, Mr. Downey, where do you think Sergeant is really from?'

 _Oh for gods sake,_ Vimes thought while he rested his head in hands and sat down on the nearest thing that wasn't covered in blood and wasn't a corpse. _Did I really have to be so nosey?_

'If I get to judge by the accent,' Downey shrugged, speaking in a very annoying conversational manner, 'I'd say he's from around here. Cockbill Street, is my guess. But it's quite odd thing, the numbers aren't just right.'

To make it worse, that caught interest of everyone else. 'What do you mean the numbers aren't right?' That was Ned. _Oh holy crap._

'See, every time has a certain manner of speaking. He can't be much older than twenty.'

'Your math isn't really good then, is it?' Vimes grinned. 'So now let's stop this fancy chatter and-'

'He can't be much older than twenty if we go by his manner of speaking, but judging from the voice, there's been about twenty years of heavy alcohol abuse,' Downey continued. Vimes felt the anger boiling underneath his skin, cheeks reddening. 'And then he traded it for heavy smoking. Got merged with aristocracy over the river around that time too.'

'Now listen, you little blabber-' Vimes didn't finish because his tongue gave out to the beast within and he leapt to tear that annoying little brat apart. The little brat with painted face stepped to side, and so Vimes ended up in Vetinari's arms instead.

'What I am saying is, that Sarge here probably has been born twenty years ago, lived thorough this and then came for coffee and chit-chat from the future. Dog-Botherer, let go off him, he's not going to take you to the prom anyway.' Downey nested himself on the crate previously occupied by Vimes.

'Vetinari, is there a way to shut him up by any other mean that smacking his head off?'

There was a confused silence and surprised blinking followed by whispered: 'You know me?'

 _Screw it all._ 'Of course I bloody do. I come thirty years from the future!'

Dead silence. The rainwater was slowly seeping into the cracks between the cobblestone. Vimes felt quite cold, being all soaked thorough. Colon's head had finally caught up with him, informing him what the hell had just happened, and the poor freshly-promoted Sergeant threw up into the gutter. There was still the threat of Carcer's men returning. Speaking of that bastard, where was he even?

Reginal sat up and then helped himself to stand up completely supported by the flag. He was picking the crossbow bolts from his chest, and without even looking up from it, he asked: 'So yoy know what happens now, don't you?'

'I don't,' Vimes shook head. 'Because I was supposed to die here. By I I mean Keel, but that poor old man didn't even make it this far, I had to fill in. To be honest, I don't know what to do now.'

Gaskin looked around. 'You've said something about storming the Palace and performing a vengeful treason on the Patrician before. I'd be up for a little vengeful treason after all that man had put us thorough today.'

Vetinari nodded. The smile on his green-grey painted face was haunting. 'If we make a run for it, we might even set a new record for that.'

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two, because you liked it. The aftermath. Featuring Dr. Follett's first name.

'Have we even a plan?' Sam asked as they were making their way up the flights of stairs. The wanted to get into as few conflicts as possible, thus the two young undergraduate Assassins navigated them to the back entrance, which resulted in more of a sightseeing tour, as long as you considered working staff of the Palace your point of interest.

'Sure,' Ned grinned at him. 'We storm into the Oblong Office, don't get killed, explain our complain about the current situation and leadership, perhaps commit a treason by decapitating this brand new Patrician we have and find a better one in his place.'

Vimes growled: 'Oh sure, right. Because the last time we did exactly that, and that was, like three or four hours ago, it went really well. I hope you've picked up a better candidate this time.' And after a moment of silence he followed with: 'Why is everyone looking at me all of sudden?'

The staring did not cease.

'No,' the realization dawned upon him. 'No, no, no. That's a _bad_ idea.'

Vetinari, about whom Vimes still had problems to think as Vetinari, tried to fix his hair and shrug nonchalantly, but he made it seem like a sack of rat getting a very bad cramp. 'There are certainly worse ideas.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Downey, have an idea.'

'Hey, Dog-botherer, what about you cuddle Hubland horned viper?'

'Thank you for proving my point.' The look which has this very young version of Vetinari awarded with this promised sharp steel in uncomfortable places. Vimes decided to keep an eye on Downey. Perhaps both eyes, if Lawn concluded he could take the eyepatch off finally.

  
  


'Something must be _done,_ ' whispered Madam Roberta.

Dr. Follett agreed: ' _Something_ must be done.'

'Something,' mumbled Rosemary Palm in her quiet corner all alone, ' _must_ be done.'

Mr. Slant wasn't saying anything, because his lifetime and also deathtime of experience had taught him that things which were said that they must be done were never actually done.

'Perhaps we could try to change his mind?'

'Oh Bobby, I don't think his Lordship-'

'That is your problem, Kennedic,' Madam finished her glass and put it down on the table. 'You rarely think for yourself, and when you do, it's mostly booze and women legs.'

The rest of the company watched in awe, and on one particular case with a pinch of added shame, as Madam Roberta Meserole flung the door to the Oblong Office open with a dramatic crash as the solid wood collided with the wall. Then she stopped dead in her tracks, her shoulders sagging a bit, the air of confusion around her was nearly tangible. Finally she composed herself and spoke: 'Havelock?'

'Oh. Hello again, Madam.'

'Havelock, what are you doing here?'

'That's alright, madam, he's here with me.'

Rosie peeked up around her shoulder at that familiar voice. 'John!'

'Good morning, Mrs. Palm,' replied an all-male chorus without even a hint of snickering.

Dr. Follett gave in and mad ehis way thorough the doorway into the Office. The scene in front of his eyes was in one word crowded. There were six men in the City Watch uniforms, which didn't necessarily mean the same as being actual watchmen, as Dr. Follett recalled a few occasions he had put on the armour himself. Although, those memories were more than slightly blurry and smelled vaguely of champagne. Then there was a... It probably wasn't a monkey wearing a flattened top hat, but it was hard to believe it. And last of all, Mr. Downey and Mr. Vetinari, who was technically speaking Lord Vetinari, but for Follett only after, or rather _if_ , the boy manages to graduate. For some strange reason, all of them were holding a quite damaged and wilted lilacs.

The Doctor took a deep breath: 'Pray tell, Mr. Downey, what is that on your face?'

Downey, sprawled on the desk like a lazy cat in afternoon sunshine, run a finger along his cheek and then inspected the orange-black smear it left behind the nail. 'That's war paint, doc. Perhaps you've heard that certain Hubland barbarian tribes believe that painting their faces in vivid colours help them to raise their battle spirits and –'

'Are you a Hubland barbarian, Mr. Downey?'

Downey's face was unreadable. 'I'm certainly giving it a try.'

It was in that moment Dr. Follet noticed the boy was holding a two-faced dwarven battleaxe, which as he knew could be thrown with high precision even in unskilled hand. Perhaps this wasn't the best time to press the matter, so instead he turned his attention to the other student who wasn't faring much better in these regards. Being aware who else was present in the room, he only sighed: 'And your excuse, Mr. Vetinari?'

'Bad make-up day,' came the answer. Dr. Follet hadn't it in him to inquire why would Vetinari's make-up be all over his face or in this dull shade of dark green or even why would _a boy_ be wearing one.

'What has happened here?' That was Mr. Slant, finally stepping into the room and pointing an accusing finger at the body of Lord Snapcase with foam at the mouth which was laying there motionlessly on the chateau rug nearly in the doorway.

'Wasn't lookin', guv,' shrugged Nobby. The movement caused several cases of seasickness.

'What is that supposed to mean?' Mr. Slant persuaded.

'Well, hnah, we all sort of, hnah, closed our eyes and tur-hnah-ned around to the wall,' Snoty began explaining with a vague gesticulation. 'And then there, hnah, was a thud, hnah, and the next thing I see is a, hnah, wall, because I for-hnah-got to turn back.'

Vimes stubbed his cigar on the windowsill and put behind his ear. 'Don't worry, citizens,' he said with a wolfish grin, 'the police is handling it. Nothing to see here. Move along.'

Rosie wished for a piece of bubblegum she could have blown and popped at that moment, but sadly she hadn't any on her person at the moment. 'How have you phrased it, Mr. Slant? _Bossa nova, similis bossa seneca?_ '

'That's one hell of bastardization,' muttered Downey from his spot where he was brushing off some foam from his left hand, 'and that's _me_ saying.'

Fred Colon threw a desperate smile around the room and asked: 'So, did we make the record or not?'

  
  


The first thing the newer than new Patrician Lord Keel did was that he sent all his men, one kind, and two students of the unofficially Assassins', officially De Chacal Academy to visit the doctor's. Vetinari tried to complain that the Guild had its own infirmary, but upon seeing how gratefully his classmate dropped down on Lawn's table, this spring of argument had dried up.

The guys weren't in exactly a good shape. The best of them all was Nobby who has lost only one milk tooth as he had bitten into someone's ankle way too hard, and thus suffered a loss of one dollar promised by the tooth fairy. Everyone else had a couple of cuts and bruises, in Snouty's case missing half a face. Ned had lost consciousness shortly after Vimes- well, in fact Keel took his Patrician oaths and keys, and they all had to carry him the whole way. Downey admitted he was going half blind and began throwing up on every corner. He had, however, pointed out that this wasn't all that uncommon with his hangovers. Upon hearing that Dr. Lawn rolled his eyes and said that the young man needs to learn the difference between a hangover and a concussion, which was followed by a nervous apology from an obviously very empty corner.

Worst of all ended up Reg Shoe, which wasn't much surprising, because he was dead. The picked him up across the road where he was banging on the door of the morgue, demanding an entry. As of now, he was sitting on a spare blanket next to Vetinari who was shaking in an aftershock, chugging down a second bottle of formaldehyde and monologuing about what was originally meant as a litany against the world injustice and turned out to be a way to went out his repressed wishes to have a chance to become a painter. Strangely, Vetinari felt better for it.

Vimes himself had his arm put in gyps and all of his cigars stolen because he would had burned his lungs out otherwise. 'Seriously, John, smoking is just as bad as drinking and it is going to kill you.'

'It's actually worse, Mossy,' mumbled Downey into his pillow, as he was put on a bed rest and not allowed to get up under the threat of being tied to the bed. 'Smoking is killing the people you breathe around too.'

Vimes was staring out of the window and half listening to Reg, because someone should listen to him from time to time. The dead man had a lot of opinions on blue. It was a good background noise to process a lot of things. For example being a Patrician without wanting it. He knew things that needed to be done, sure, but he didn't know _how_. And he wasn't really keen on learning.

He sighed and looked around. 'Is Rosie still here? I remember she came here in with us, she carried Ned.'

The woman in question peeked in thorough the door: 'I am. And I let you know those were my prettiest dress, and Coats has bled all over them!'

'Rude of him, I'll give him a talk about that when he wakes up,' Vimes nodded absent-mindedly. 'Have you brought the papers.'

The expression she made was puzzled. 'What papers?'

'You want a Guild founded. I'm pretty damn sure you need some papers for that which I should sign or something.'

'I didn't know- What papers do I- What even-'

'Look,' he shrugged one shoulder, as the other hurt too much, 'Mr. Slant probably knows what papers. Beat it out of him with a stick, better literally than metaphorically, and that's it, alright? Gods, I'm tired.'

Rosie Gave him a brief peck on the cheek, the one that wasn't covered under all the bandages, and scuttled away. Somewhere to his left Vimes heard Dr. Lawn arguing with Reg that he isn't giving him yet another bottle.

He made it upstairs to his room, which as he now realized he was going to leave in the couple of net days and change it for some room in the Palace he supposed. He remembered Vetinari's, the old Vetinari he knew, not this young stranger. He remembered Vetinari's bedroom, every detail as he had checked it for arsenic three or four or probably more times. It had been small and empty. Would his bedroom look like this? Probably.

He hit the covers flat, rolled to his side and tried his best not to think about Sybil as he closed his eyes. The ceiling had to be dripping, because his face was wet and there was no way he was crying. When he held his breath and was completely still, he could hear distant rain accompanied by thunder.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple of "Night Watch gets retconned" ideas. Though thorough about as far as this one, yeah. this one gets to by me favourite, though.


End file.
